


Hair

by RedOrchid



Series: Picture of A Man [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: picture of a man, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-16
Updated: 2008-12-16
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:01:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedOrchid/pseuds/RedOrchid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius knows that he shouldn’t look.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hair

Sirius knows that he shouldn’t look. He really shouldn’t.

It wasn’t even a good idea the first time around.

Rather the opposite, in fact.

He knows this. Of course he knows this.

And still.

He wonders if it was the pure messiness of it that called out to him at first—calling out to a boy who had been raised to always look immaculate, to never be seen with the smallest detail out of place—like a vibration of freedom in the wind. He wonders if that was the reason why he wanted to pull his hands through it, bury his fingers in smooth, easy-going imperfection—which was somehow so much _better_ than the flawlessly arranged waves of ebony around his own face.

He used to imagine how it would feel against his skin, tousled strands around his fingers and tangled caresses along the column of his neck, descending slowly over his chest. It became ridiculous after a while, to the point where he would provoke James with the stupidest things, just to get him distracted enough to stop pulling his hand through that fucking annoying, messy mop of brown hair _all the bloody time_.

Yeah. Falling head over heels in love with his best friend had definitely not been the smartest thing he’d ever done.

To lust after his son is worse.

Harry is fifteen. One year older than James was when… well perhaps not when Sirius noticed, but when the crush moved on from simple infatuation to something all-encompassing. One year older than when Sirius would lie awake at night, staring at the back of James’s head, forcing himself not to reach out and touch the ruffled tresses. When Harry has his back turned, or his eyes closed, Sirius has to literally fight for breath, battling everything inside of him to keep from pushing forward, from taking that gorgeous, messy head in his hands and burying himself in the textures and scents, finally touching what he’s waited more than half his life to feel under his palms.

He can’t, however. Even though he doesn’t feel any different from those days in May when they would all go out to sit by the lake at Hogwarts and he would toss things back and forth with James to have something to focus on apart from the way that the sun seemed to play some kind of intricate game together with the wind that was obviously designed for pure torture. So even though he doesn’t feel any different, he knows that he is, and he only has to take a quick look in the mirror to see it—how complete and irrevocable the change that has been wrought in him.

He knows that he can’t take the step—can’t reach out to casually brush away a stray strand of dark brown and tuck it in behind an ear—because he knows that it wouldn’t be an innocent gesture, and he can’t allow himself that liberty. He’s not the best friend anymore. Not the fourteen-year-old boy who saw a hand pull through a wind-tousled nest of tangles after Quidditch and thought _Perhaps tonight._

Now, he’s the godfather. A condemned murderer without much hope for redemption and a prisoner inside his own house, jealously guarded by the relics of his past. The freedom of imperfection calls out to him as strongly as it ever did, and he’s just as trapped now as he was then. Fourteen or thirty-seven doesn’t matter, it seems. Not where it counts.

He clings to his teacup as Harry leans forward, oblivious and careless, his hair brushing against Sirius’s neck as he reaches over the older man’s shoulder for the book he left on the table earlier.

It’s Boxing Day morning, and Harry smells of cinnamon and Christmas cookies. Just like James did.

Careful not to move too much, Sirius leans a little further into the featherlike touch, breathes deeply, and silently begins to count down the days until the start of next term.


End file.
